


Fuck (With) Me

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: 10 Years of F1 Slash, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-02
Updated: 2011-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-18 21:32:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his victory at Imola, Ralf comes to collect his winnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fuck (With) Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [diagon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diagon/gifts).



_Imola, 2001_

Juan leans against the curving interior wall of his motorhome and studies the mess in front of him. The debris of food and drinks are scattered across the long, low table. Sticky circles mark the gloss of its surface. Plates are piled haphazardly, smeared and crusted with whatever the fuck his guests had been eating during the race. Cushions have been flung aside. The thick rubber-matted floor bears the puncture marks of high heels. The leather couches have scuffmarks on the seats. Greasy fingerprints cover the widescreen television. The remote control is nowhere to be seen.

He sighs and rubs his forehead. He’s got no intention of clearing this up, but it pisses him off to look at the chaos. Patrick will probably chew him out for inviting random people into his motorhome in the first place. He hadn’t known a single one of them, which made it all the more amusing to invite them in here. Fuck those corporate hangers-on and celeb-fuckers that stood around the paddock with eager expressions and too much cleavage. He hopes they at least enjoyed his free hospitality, because his race had been the same old shit.

Or maybe not quite the same old, because this time his teammate had won. Ralf’s first victory, and Williams’ first win after a long drought. Juan clenches his jaw and gives the wall a thump as he moves forward. He’d wanted to be the one to take the win. Never mind that Ralf’s been in F1 for four seasons already. Seniority counts for nothing.

Behind him, the door opens.

“Fucking knock, why don’t you,” Juan snaps, not bothering to look around.

“It was already open.” The voice is familiar. Too familiar, like he owns the place.

“The hell it was.” Juan turns and stares at Ralf, who’s dressed and groomed to perfection in his Williams shirt and pale blue jeans, his team cap pushed far back on his head, sponsor’s watch glinting with expensive promise from his wrist. The perfect corporate suck-up.

Tension clenches Juan’s shoulders. “Shouldn’t you be giving interviews?”

“Some things are more important than interviews.” Ralf leans against the door, crossing his hands behind his back. He smiles.

Juan snorts. “Things like gloating over your teammate?”

“I’m not here to gloat.”

“Sure.” There’s a pause, both of them looking at one another with nothing to say. Ralf seems comfortable with the silence, but for Juan it’s awkward. He supposes this is the ideal moment to congratulate his teammate on his victory, but he doesn’t want to waste his breath saying things he doesn’t mean. When Ralf doesn’t move, doesn’t offer any conversational gambit, Juan nods at the mess spread over the table. “Since you’re here, maybe you want to clean up?”

A glimmer of amusement lights Ralf’s features. “Not what I had in mind.”

Confusion gives way to irritation. Juan has no intention of standing around here all day. “What, then?”

“I’ve come to collect.” Ralf steps away from the door, his hands swinging forward. It’s a casual movement, but in the confines of the motorhome it seems big, bigger than it should, and a flicker of _something_ goes through Juan, straight down his spine to lodge in the pit of his stomach. He stands his ground—fuck, this is his motorhome, after all—and studies his teammate.

Ralf’s eyes are too bright, his smile too knowing. He looks wired. Juan wonders if there was something in the champagne on the podium, if DC slipped a happy pill in amongst the fizz. Or maybe this is what it looks like to win an F1 race.

“Collect?” Juan repeats. “Collect what?” He shies away a little as Ralf comes closer, and he’s annoyed by the action. It suggests weakness. Juan has never yielded before, not in anything—not on the track and not in his personal life, but now he finds there’s a first time for everything.

“You know.” Ralf gives a soft laugh and crowds forward.

“I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.” Juan backs up one more step, bumping his thigh against the back of the nearest couch. Too late he realises he’s cornered himself, trapped between the couch and the wall.

“The wager,” Ralf reminds him. “The bet. Remember?”

Juan lets out his breath. He’d forgotten, and this is a bad time to be reminded of it. “Right. Wow. You didn’t waste any time, did you?”

Ralf’s smile intensifies. “I didn’t have to think about it. I know what I want.”

“Always good to have a goal in life.” Juan injects a sneer into his voice. Shit, he can barely remember the damn bet. They’d agreed to it months ago during testing, just some stupid thing, a promise made over a shared bottle of Jack Daniels that whoever won the first race for the team would be able to demand anything of the other. Such a childish bet—Juan can’t recall who came up with the idea, but it was probably him, because he was so fucking certain he’d get the first win. Not that he’d intended collecting on it, because he already had everything he wanted, but making the bet was his effort at team bonding. A waste of fucking time that had been.

He runs through the list of possible requests and comes up empty. He doesn’t know Ralf well enough to guess at what he might want. Juan hates not knowing. By default it means that Ralf has the better of him, and he’s had enough of that for one day. He lifts his chin at a belligerent angle. “So what do you want?”

Ralf looks him in the eye. “I want to fuck you.”

Silence swings around them in ever-decreasing circles, then Juan laughs. The sound is harsh and broken. He folds his arms across his chest. Halfway through it becomes awkward. He meant to pump up his biceps and look more masculine, but instead he feels defensive. He doesn’t want Ralf to think he’s afraid. There’s still the chance that this is some kind of joke.

Juan forces himself to laugh again. It’s easier this time. “You’ve been fucking with me on the track since the start of the year.”

“I don’t want to fuck _with_ you,” Ralf says softly. He tilts his head, his expression serious, as if he’s trying to think of an easier way to clarify his demand. “I just want to fuck you.”

The reply knocks Juan off-balance. “There’s a difference?”

Ralf takes this as an invitation and moves closer. “A world of difference. Let me show you—”

“Jesus!” The blasphemy drops hot and sharp from Juan’s lips as Ralf invades his space and cups his groin through his jeans. Ralf’s hand is warm and knowing. Too knowing. His fingers splay, burrowing lower, sliding over the denim. The heel of his palm grinds against Juan’s cock in a circular movement, then Ralf makes a rocking motion with his hand and the cage of his fingers rubs over the weight of Juan’s balls.

Juan makes a strangled noise and tries to arch away. “Fuck! Shit! Jesus fucking Christ! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Don’t you listen to the gossips?” Unbelievably, Ralf looks hurt.

“No. Never.” Juan crushes against the wall, nerves jumping, a breathless queasy sensation swimming through him. “Gossip is for losers. I’m only interested in facts.”

“This is fact.” Ralf palms him again.

Juan strikes out, slaps Ralf’s hand aside. Disgust and excitement war inside him. “Get the hell away from me. You’re sick.”

Ralf goes still. “What?”

Juan knows he’s not being very politically correct but he doesn’t care. No one has hit on him before, not like this, and he struggles with it. “I don’t care if you’re a fag. I don’t give a damn about your private life. Just know that it doesn’t involve me. If you touch me again, I’ll punch you.”

“You promised.” Ralf’s eyes are soft, the blue of an innocent sky. “We both agreed, Juan. A gentleman’s agreement. You know if the situation was reversed, I’d honour the bet.”

Pride stings like a lash, and Juan curses. “Easy for you to say. You won.”

“Yes. And you agreed to pay.”

Juan latches onto the word ‘pay’. “Why don’t I pay you in cash, huh? If you don’t want my motorbike or my cars or my house or—or anything else, at least let me give you money. However much you like. I’m sure you can find someone— _buy_ someone—more to your tastes. Someone who actually likes what you like. Someone who isn’t me.”

“But I want you,” Ralf says, his voice calm, his tone rational. He shrugs a little, calling Juan’s wandering attention to the breadth of his shoulders. “And you promised,” he adds, once more stepping forward.

There’s not enough room for them both. Juan tries to vanish through the wall, rejection in every line of his body. The hell will he let Ralf fuck him. Frustration coils, his muscles tense, his brain flashing alerts. He snarls, blocking Ralf’s groping hand, grabbing at his wrist and twisting.

Ralf exhales, his breath warm and scented with champagne and victory. He pulls his hand free and leans closer, using his height advantage to pin Juan against the curving wall.

“Christ!” Juan lashes out, his elbows banging on the wall as he struggles to shift Ralf off him. He yelps when Ralf tries to kiss him. He turns his head, gasping as Ralf nuzzles at his neck and licks the side of his face. “Off. Get off me. Get—”

Ralf chuckles into his ear. The sound is ticklish. Exciting. Juan can’t bear it. He gathers his determination, ignores the weakness in his knees, and gives Ralf a mighty shove. He catches Ralf’s shoulders, feels the slide of cotton beneath his hands, and thrusts him away a second time. He doesn’t know his own strength; Ralf stumbles, reels sideways, and thuds against the couch before dropping to his knees with a soft grunt.

A brief sliver of guilt stabs Juan, but he suppresses it. He should kick Ralf while he’s down, but he does nothing, doesn’t move, doesn’t take the chance to escape.

Ralf lifts his head and looks up, eyes blazing.

Juan swallows. He knows that look, recognises it as lust, feels the answering kick. His cock hardens. “Fuck, no,” he mutters, suddenly recognising the danger. His own damn body is turning traitor on him, and though he should be climbing over Ralf and getting the hell away from this fucked-up situation, he’s still standing there, his gaze fixed on Ralf’s mouth.

Ralf licks his lips. It’s a deliberate move; Juan expected it, but it’s still stupidly hot. He can’t look away, his focus total, his own lips parted as he stares at the glisten of saliva on Ralf’s pout. Juan’s mind goes places, dark places, places he wants to deny. He squirms, his cock pulsing, his skin crawling. He imagines Ralf sucking his cock. He wants it. The thought jolts his prick hard up against the restriction of his jeans, pressing the shaft into the zipper.

“No,” he says aloud, more to himself than to Ralf. “No fucking way.”

Still Juan doesn’t move. If anything, he’s angled his shoulders against the wall, found a more comfortable stance, his hips jutting forward at an angle somewhere between arrogance and invitation.

Ralf takes a breath and leans forward. Reaches out. His fingers touch the black leather of Juan’s belt, the caress hesitant. Juan doesn’t move. Ralf strokes halfway along the length of the belt then returns to the silver buckle. In a decisive gesture he yanks at it, making short work of the fastening. The belt hangs down, frames Juan’s erection. He says nothing, does nothing.

His fly button now, and then the zipper. It purrs down, the sound loud in the heavy silence. Expectation ripens the air around them. Juan forces himself to remain motionless. He’s not encouraging anything. He tries to ignore the fact that he’s not denying anything, either.

Ralf bites his lower lip in concentration and kneels forward. He slides his hand inside Juan’s jeans and grasps his cock. With practiced ease he parts Juan’s underwear, freeing his prick. He sighs a little, sits back, and looks at it with hunger.

Juan has never had anyone eye him with such blatant intent before. Girls, sure, they like to get a good look at his cock, like to measure it with their hands and mouths as if to guarantee themselves of how well it’ll fit inside them, but it’s a one-sided sort of assessment. None of those girls have ever stared at his cock the way Ralf is staring.

Maybe he should take it as a compliment. Obviously Ralf is experienced. He must have seen dozens of cocks. Juan doesn’t flatter himself that his is the biggest or thickest out there. Maybe his is small compared to Ralf’s other lovers. Maybe that’s why he’s staring. Oh God. That can’t be the reason, can it? The idea makes him wilt ever so slightly, and he panics.

Ralf puts his hand around Juan’s cock, anchoring thumb and forefinger around the base. He squeezes just enough to encourage, and a surge of lust makes Juan hard again, a gasp torn from him at the shocking, unexpected pleasure.

A smile curves Ralf’s lips. “Would your macho Colombian pride allow me to suck your dick?”

Juan’s brain short-circuits. He can barely get the answer out. “Yes.”

The smile deepens, dazzles. Ralf curls his tongue, presses the tip against the bow of his lips, a seemingly unconscious gesture that Juan finds suddenly and unbelievably sexy. He jolts back against the wall, still unsure about this, but can’t go far with Ralf’s finger and thumb around his cock. Juan keens, the sound rising in his throat, a knot of tension expanding through his ribcage. He doesn’t want to watch this, except he does. He can’t help it. He can’t look away, mesmerised by the slow descent of Ralf’s head, the way his lips part, the flash of white teeth and pink tongue and then the warmth and wetness and the suction.

Juan closes his eyes for a moment. He focuses on sensation, drawing in one long breath as Ralf takes him right down to the root. He feels Ralf’s nose brush his pubes. He can’t believe it. No woman has ever devoured so much of him. He gives himself a mental shake. He’s not supposed to be impressed by this. Juan reaches for Ralf’s head and encounters the stiff peak and rough cotton of the team cap. It gives him a start, but a second later he flings the cap away and digs his fingers into Ralf’s tawny-blond hair. He combs through it, feeling the resistance of gel, tears his way through the waves to press against the scalp. He doesn’t care if he’s hurting Ralf. He kind of wants it to hurt.

Ralf sucks, head moving, tongue working. He’s greedy, making wet, slurping sounds, groaning low as he tries to stuff more of Juan’s cock down his throat. Juan helps him, still gripping his hair, thrusting, fucking his face. The muffled moans vibrate, trembling through Juan. His knees go weak. He slumps low against the wall, bracing himself, gaining more momentum to shove his full weight through his hips and into his thrusts. It doesn’t seem to faze Ralf, who claws his hands into Juan’s thighs and tries to get even closer. His urgency is horny, sexy as hell, and Juan whimpers in appreciation. He’s getting close now, his thoughts straying and fragmenting, his concentration as ragged as his breathing.

He doesn’t want to come in Ralf’s mouth. Despite his agreement to this act, this perversion, he feels a little emasculated by it, his pride dented by his loss of control. The more he thinks about it, the more confusing it gets, and now he can’t think about it, can’t think about anything, because the need to fuck is more urgent than his fear of being branded as gay, and right now he doesn’t think he could tell the difference between screwing Ralf, Connie, or a hole in the wall.

Except he can tell, of course he can, and he doesn’t want to spill his seed in his teammate’s mouth, doesn’t want to see Ralf’s knowing smirk as he drinks down the flood of spunk. Frantic, cursing in two languages, Juan jerks away from Ralf. His cock is wet, hard and red. He needs to come. His brain blanks out everything else. He almost jabs his prick back towards Ralf’s mouth, but then he has a better idea.

He hauls Ralf to his feet and spins him around, bends him over the back of the couch and yanks at his jeans. Juan’s hands are trembling, haste making him clumsy. He pauses, shocked in an admiring way when he bares Ralf’s arse and thighs. There’s no underwear to slow him down. God, he thinks, that’s fucking _dirty_.

Juan has no idea what he’s doing, but he doesn’t think he needs to. It’s instinctive, right? He has no time to explore properly, tells himself he wouldn’t want to even if he did have the time. His cock is leaking pre-come, drooling it, and Ralf’s saliva is drying all along his shaft. He needs to fuck, needs to hit orgasm, he just _needs_. Obeying the urge, Juan spreads Ralf’s buttocks and rubs his cock along the seam, spits into his hand, spits onto Ralf’s arse. He wipes his cockhead through the gob of saliva and jabs at him, once, twice, three times.

He gives a cry of lust and frustration and makes another attempt, slower now, but misses again. A goading sense of failure, of stupidity, overwhelms him. His temper unravels and snaps. He has to do this right. He’s the man. He knows how to fuck.

Ralf rears up, breathless and panting. He squirms on the back of the couch but keeps his balance, reaching to help Juan, grasping his prick and guiding him in. He sets Juan’s cockhead against his entrance and nudges backward, and that’s all it takes. One breath and they’re in it together, Juan sinking deep into him, Ralf gasp-laughing as he takes it all.

Juan doesn’t want togetherness and teamwork. Angry words bubble to the surface and spew out as he grabs Ralf’s hips and pumps into him. Blind in fury, he’s hot-faced, shame and pleasure prickling his scalp, his skin. The smell of sex and sweat is intoxicating, disgusting. Ralf’s gasps and moans echo along with his own animalistic grunts. The back of the couch wobbles, the leather sliding and squeaking with their combined weight and the force of their thrusts. He fixes his gaze on Ralf’s head, on the disorder of his carefully styled hair. Something like affection washes through Juan and he drives it away, fucking his teammate harder, faster, steeper.

He catches sight of their reflection in the blank face of the television screen. Even given back to him in negative it’s hot, and Juan wishes it was a mirror, wishes he could see Ralf’s face. He imagines it, imagines Ralf’s expression, and it’s enough, more than enough, he’s coming, fast and violent. Before he loses it all, Juan pulls out, jerking his cock over Ralf’s arse, spattering him with sticky white trails.

He spins away, sweating, shaking, head buzzing with adrenalin, heart pounding. He leans against the wall, turning his face from the sight of Ralf with spunk all over him. Juan inhales, exhales, his breath misting the motorhome wall. When he feels capable, he tucks his cock away and fastens his jeans. He can’t think of a single thing to say.

Ralf moans, moves. Face flushed with pleasure, his eyes glitter. A trail of seed drips down the back of the couch. Ralf straightens to his full height and wipes a hand across his arse, smearing Juan’s come across his palm. He dabs his tongue through the semen, licks his fingers briefly.

“Fuck,” Juan says, appalled and turned-on and confused. “Fuck.”

Ralf laughs. He cleans his hand on the inside of his shirt and pulls up his jeans.

Juan wants to punch him. He resists the urge with difficulty. There’s a sour taste in his mouth as reason reasserts itself. “You should go.”

Ralf smiles. “Thank you for giving me what I wanted.”

That sounds wrong, a note jarring somewhere. Juan frowns, shakes his head. His memory clears and he basks in a glow of smug superiority. “I didn’t. You said you wanted to fuck me.”

His smile triumphant, Ralf leans closer. “I lied.”

Juan’s certainty shatters. “What?”

Another laugh, careless and silvery. “I lied. You gave me exactly what I wanted.”

Juan stares, finds his voice. “You fucked with me.”

Ralf raises an eyebrow. “Of course I did. Why should you expect anything else?” Bending over the couch again, he retrieves his team cap. He sets it on his head at a jaunty angle, gives Juan a wink, and leaves the motorhome, whistling.


End file.
